To Those Who Wait
by love.devil.movies.baby
Summary: Ron Weasley doesn't normally mind waiting. But he has been waiting for Hermione Granger for seven years and he's quite fed up with it. It's time to take matters into his own hands...


**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, settings etc. relating to the Harry Potter universe. All credit goes to J.K. Rowling. This story is not to be used for profit. It is just an exercise in creativity.**

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><p>Ron Weasley was well aware that good things came to those who waited. His life had been nothing if not waiting. An impatient person by nature, his mother repeated the phrase to him often as a child. It played in his head as he waited for his chance for many things, for going to Hogwarts, for getting his own wand, for playing keeper on the Gryffindor team, for stepping out of his brothers' shadows and for becoming more than just Harry Potter's ginger sidekick.<p>

Searching for Horcruxes had been an exercise almost exclusively in waiting. But just as his mother said, his waiting had paid off. The price was dear, the life of a brother and multiple friends, the loss of innocence and nightmares he wasn't sure would ever leave him. He knew that he was again playing a waiting game. He went to bed every night telling himself that it would soon be all right. That the sick, crushing feeling of grief would abate, that the world, so long thrust into chaos, would right itself. So he waited, standing side by side with his brothers at more funerals then he cared to count, patting backs, holding hands, muttering condolences. He waited until they had all been laid to rest, until Hogwarts was put back into sorts, until Harry stopped crying himself to sleep every night and George started smiling again. He waited to move out of the Burrow until his mother could go a day without sobbing at random, until he was convinced that Harry and Ginny were really going to make it, that Percy was back in the fold for good. He waited without question, content in his role as the rock his loved ones needed. But there was one thing he was sick of waiting for.

It had taken seven bloody years to get a kiss from the girl he'd loved since his first year and it was looking like it'd take seven more before he had anytime alone with her. He understood there was much to be done, that she would want to be with her parents again after so long and that others would crave her company. But memories of sloppy wet kisses outside of the room of the requirement weren't cutting it anymore. He was ready to replace them with new ones.

So it was with much ceremony that he asked her to his flat one night. Harry was still at the Burrow, joined at his sister's hip. He'd mind more if it didn't mean that the flat was all his for an evening. Hermione seemed to understand the significance of being alone together; it was nothing novel by any means, but after weeks of stolen kisses and furtive looks, this night alone held more weight than the others.

He was sure the apartment was clean before she arrived, even going so far as to charm his bed sheets out of their normal tangled mess. He ran a comb through his normally untidy hair, plopped down on the couch to wait and wondered for the billionth time why he was so bloody nervous.

A faint pop sounded outside of his door and before he even fully registered its meaning he was bounding off of the couch and nearly ripping the hinges apart. Hermione was standing on his step, looking like she'd taken particular care with her appearance. Her hair was sleek and fell down over her shoulders in waves, she'd worn nice jeans and a blouse in his favorite color. She stepped into his small foyer and looked around nervously.

"You've done a lot since I was here last," she remarked. "I like the new color of the rug." She walked into the living room, pointing out changes he'd made to the décor.

"The couch looks lovely," she continued absentmindedly. She was ringing her hands and bouncing slightly from foot to foot.

Ron watched her, amused, as she babbled. Here was the girl who infuriated him from the moment they met, the bossy-boots, know-it-all who was constantly one-upping him. The girl he'd pretended to not care for, the girl he'd watched longingly when no one was looking, the girl who constantly challenged him, who'd faced Horcruxes, dementors and death eaters without so much as batting an eye, the girl he waited years for. And she was nervous to be alone with him.

"Hermione," her name startled her out of her rant. She looked at him expectantly with wide brown eyes.

"Ron," she managed to make his name sound like a question.

"You talk too bloody much."

She opened her mouth, surely to emit words of protest. He leaned forward swiftly, wrapping her in his arms and silencing her with a kiss. She gave a soft little gasp at his boldness, but soon seemed to pick up on the point, threading her fingers through his ginger hair. Smart girl.

He held her against him until he became light headed, alternating between kissing her lips, face and neck, to running his hands over her back, unsure which one he liked more. Her small hands, so deft at complicated spells, traced over his chest and collarbone clumsily. He guided them around his neck, hefting her into his arms and eliciting another gasp of delight from her. He smiled against her lips; here, at last, was something he was better at than she was.

He took one cautious step in the direction of his room, and when she did not protest, quickly crossed the carpet with her hanging onto him tightly. His room was dark, but he managed to click the deluminator in his pocket. A ball of white light shot across and into his unplugged lamp, casting his room in a soft glow. They hit the bed in an ungraceful pile, lips still connected.

He foggily considered asking her if he was moving too fast before her hands worked their way under his shirt and tugged it over his head. Delighted at her actions, he imitated her, peeling away layers until soon they were only clad in their underwear. Ron did pause then, pulling himself away from the heat of her kiss.

"Are you sure?" he asked her breathlessly.

"Ronald," the bossy tone had returned to her voice and she sat up to look him directly in the eye. "I think that seven years and three months is quite a long enough time to wait." To punctuate her point, she yanked his face back down to hers and moved his hands back to her waist.

"Blimey, are you trying to kill me?" he gasped as she moved her hand under the hem of his boxers.

"If you don't get a move on, I'll seriously consider it." She told him.

This time it was Ron who shut up.

A half hour later, he stared up at the ceiling, his arm around Hermione, her naked chest pressed into his side. He kissed her once more as she drifted off to sleep. She sighed contentedly and snuggled more closely towards him. The feeling of peace that came over him caused his mother's words to echo in his head once more. He glanced down at his sleeping girlfriend.

There were indeed things that were well worth the wait.


End file.
